


Steps

by GintokiDreamGirl



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Depression, F/F, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Instability, Multi, Other, Recovery, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:46:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29596443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GintokiDreamGirl/pseuds/GintokiDreamGirl
Summary: There’s healthy promiscuity, and there’s harmful promiscuity. It’s interesting what trauma does to your brain, so let’s go through some unhealthy coping mechanisms together.
Relationships: Eren Yeager/Reader, Levi Ackerman & Reader, Levi Ackerman/Reader, Zeke Yeager/Reader
Kudos: 32





	Steps

**Author's Note:**

> Now edited :)

You were struggling to keep your eyes open. Your limbs felt like lead, and soreness radiated from all over your body. The breeze from the vent overhead hit the moisture on your stomach, creating a coldness that was a stark contrast to the sweat on your skin and goosebumps rose. Zeke’s voice was audible through the closed door. He was on the phone in a casual conversation as if he didn’t have a woman in his bed that he had just thoroughly ravished, leaving her alone to gather her whits and struggle to move because bruises littered her body. 

Your arm hung off the edge of the bed and your leg was off the edge perpendicular to the other. You were on your back with cum drying on your chest and pooling into your navel. You finally began to sit up, wincing at a pain on your upper right thigh. You looked down at the rope burn. It was a familiar pain. The room was dark. The only source of light was an old t.v. that was on a channel of static. The volume was off. On the television sat a VCR with a VHS sitting in its mouth, ejected but not fully pulled out. For a moment, you wondered if it was you on the tape or if it was someone else. He had more tapes than you could count. He displayed them along a shelf above the small entertainment center. They all sat in cardboard sleeves labeled with sharpie. Each sat horizontally, stacked neatly and in no order you could discern. You only dared to view one once, and he was furious. The repercussions made you too scared to ever try it again. It wasn’t like you two were dating anyway, meaning you had no right to impose where you were not welcomed, and he had the right to do whatever he wanted with whoever he wanted. 

After cleaning up as much as you could in his bathroom sink, you dressed and exited his tidy townhome without saying good-bye. That’s how it always was. You felt sluggish as you climbed into the driver’s seat of your small car, and you turned the ignition to turn the radio on. It was already set to your favorite channel, but a commercial was playing, so you turned it down as you pushed back the sleeve of your hoodie to check your watch in the small overhead light. It was 11:37pm, and you had class in the morning. It was late, but you couldn’t bring yourself to take yourself home just yet. 

For the sake of just an ounce of kindness to your psyche, you drove to a familiar cliffside and climbed onto the hood of your car to admire the city lights. 

\----------------------------- You entered your chemistry classroom and beelined to a seat in the back of the room hoping to avoid a specific pair of icy eyes. To your chagrin, he noticed you immediately. You tried to mentally prepare yourself for questioning as you could see him approaching from your peripheral. 

“We were supposed to meet yesterday.” His tone carried his usual take-no-shit tone, but it didn’t carry the usual softness he typically reserved for you.  
You pulled your bag into your lap to open it and pull out a notebook. Once you placed it on the black table top, his hand came down on it aggressively. 

“I’m sorry,” you lied.

“No, you’re not. If you keep this up, you are going to fail.” 

You sighed and finally looked up at him. He was scowling at you, disappointment was across his face. That seemed how everyone looked at you these days. He scanned your face to determine if you were going to resist his call-out, but his anger dissipated when he saw a purple and yellow bruise on your left cheekbone. “Did someone hit you?”  
Not in a way you didn’t ask them to, you thought. “An accident. It’s fine.” You looked back down and began digging for a pencil. You always threw everything together in the largest pouch, so it was always an unorganized mess to dig through at the start of every class. 

“Meet me today at three. I’ll be in my office. I expect you to be there,” and then he called you by your last name. It was a formality for when you were around other people. More and more students filed in, finding their seats and taking out their supplies. 

Professor Ackerman only wanted his students to call him by his title, which was odd for a college professor. Your other teachers insisted on everyone being on a first name basis, but Ackerman demanded a higher level of respect as if he was older than just five years ahead of most of you. 

He was pretty short for a man his age, but he made up for it in looks. His face was in a permanent frown, but it suited him. He had pale skin that was flawless, save for the dark circles under his eyes, but again, they suited him. His hair went down to his ears, parted just off to the side, and he had a neat undercut that was always kept. He was skinny, but obviously fit, and always wore clothes that were fitting and carefully chosen. Over his outfits, he wore a long lab coat for classes and safety. 

You were brought out of your thoughts by your name being called, and you turned and met a dazzling pair of green eyes. You hadn’t even noticed when he sat down next to you. “We’re partners for the next lab.” He leaned an elbow onto the table and supported his head in his hand casually. 

“Oh.” 

After Ackerman’s beginning of the day lecture, your partner pulled out his notebook and pens. He pulled out the special lab books and set them between you.  
“We can use mine for the data.” 

“Okay.” 

He leaned over to flip the book open, and you noticed he smelled quite nice. It didn’t seem like a cologne. Maybe a nice soap or shampoo, perhaps. Whatever it was, it was a natural scent of some sort. His chestnut hair looked thick and healthy, reaching his shoulders, and half of it was pulled up in a lazy ponytail. A few strands fell loose over his forehead and by his ears. His eyebrows were thick and naturally in a good shape. They accented the brightness of his eyes. The more you looked at him, the more you realized there was something that felt familiar to you. You couldn’t place what. 

Once he found the page he needed, he flattened it out and sat up. “I’m Eren,” he held his hand out to shake. 

You two spent the class researching testing methods for the upcoming lab. He was surprisingly knowledgeable at what needed to be done in each case, while you almost always had to ask Ackerman for a hint about what you needed to look for. Halfway through the class period, you already had your proposal ready for your professor to examine. Five minutes later, it was approved and you both were dismissed early. 

“Oh,” Eren called to you before you made your way out of the room. “Here’s my number.” He scribbled on a corner of a piece of paper and tore it, handing it over to you.  
You took it and stuffed it into your hoodie pocket. He stood half a foot taller than you. 

“Call me if you have any questions or anything.” 

You nodded and headed out. 

Professor Ackerman was waiting for you in the afternoon like he said he would. You braced yourself before entering the quiet room.  
Ackerman looked up from a textbook in his hand and closed it with a loud clap. He plopped it onto the table behind him and faced you, leaning his weight onto a table behind him. 

You let your bag slide off your shoulder and onto the floor. You jumped up to sit on a table near you and let your legs dangle freely. You waited for him to speak first. You didn’t understand why he was so mad about you skipping a study session. 

Your grades were pretty bad, but your mental state was in shambles, to put it lightly. Everytime you looked into the mirror, you saw a girl who was struggling to keep herself together for everyone around her, and it felt like everyone saw that too.  
“Everytime I see you, it looks like you’re self-destructing.” 

Okay, maybe it was obvious to other people. You couldn’t help it, though. It wasn’t like you had the energy to seek a fitting therapist or explore medication possibilities. You showered often enough. That seemed to be a step in the right direction. There was no how-to video or exemplary simulation of grief recovery for you, and you weren’t prepared to handle the stress it put you under. You had only returned to classes so you could fill your time. 

You shrugged and couldn’t help the smirk that made its way onto your face. “I’m here, aren’t I?” 

He pushed away from the lab table he was against and rounded a few to make his way to you. His hands came up and cupped your cheeks when he made it. “I’m here for you. I mean it.” He made you look into his eyes. “Do you regret it?” 

Flashbacks played in your mind. You clearly recalled how the leather of his car’s backseat stuck to the skin of your back as he rhythmically rammed into you, his sweat dripping from his chin onto your collarbone. You shook your head and reached up to hold one of his wrists in a light grip. You weren’t sure where you wanted this situation to end up relationship-wise, but his soft touch brought a bit of comfort to your wounded spirit. You let your eyes flutter closed. 

He leaned in and kissed you, feather light. A part of you knew you should vocalize your confusion and communicate, but all you could think about was how one of his hands rested on your thigh. It rubbed lightly and made its way higher along, touching the top of one of your thigh high socks. 

His fingers glided higher as he slipped his tongue into your mouth and brought his body closer as he stood between your legs. His fingertips brushed over a burn from the day before, and he paused. He broke off the kiss and lifted your skirt. You looked away in embarrassment. Your eyes found a cabinet of acids that were carefully organized and labeled. 

“Jesus, kid,” his voice held sadness. “No, this is…” his fingers followed the wound, “from being tied up?” 

You scowled at the brown cabinet and concentrated on a group of fingerprints on the glass. What were you even supposed to say to him?

“Was this consensual?” 

You let your head fall back and closed your eyes. He hooked his fingers under the top of your sock and pulled it down further, revealing a trail of bruising from the same rope that caused the burn. 

“I can make my own choices,” you finally spoke. 

A gasp left your lips as you felt him kiss your thigh. You opened your eyes and looked down to him. “Is this how you want me to treat you? You want me to hurt you?” His hands followed along the discoloration and massaged at it, making you wince. His eyes held yours as he kissed the skin again and again. 

He took you from behind that day. Your skirt was pushed up and your panties were around your ankles as his body covered yours. His voice held aggression, but his touch held care. He felt more sad than anything. 

After he finished, he tied off the condom and threw it into the trash wrapped in a tissue. He walked over to his desk and sat down and picked up a pen without looking at you once. You pulled your panties back up and picked your bag off the floor. You exited quietly. You weren’t sure what you felt. You wondered if he was calling you a whore in that arrogant head of his.

You made it to a stairwell that led down to the ground floor. Instead of descending the staircase, you sat at the bottom of a flight and hugged your knees. There was nothing to do right now besides go home, and it was the last place in the world you wanted to be. The silence was crippling. You thought you knew what loneliness felt like before everything happened, but you were wrong. It was so much worse. 

After an hour of watching the sky from your car’s windshield, you decided to face reality and head to the empty apartment. 

The front door was daunting. The paint was chipped in places, revealing a dingy white underneath. Your eyes fell down to a small face drawn in sharpie. You remembered when that was done. You had smacked the marker out of her hand as soon as she did it. 

You entered the apartment and dropped your bag near the shoes. You avoided looking at the other pairs to the side and slipped yours off and miserably made your way to your bedroom, trying not to focus on much until you were in your own space. Seeing anything that reminded you of her would set you off right now. You weren’t well enough at this moment. 

It has been three months, and it hasn’t gotten any easier. Your apartment was a tomb that you couldn’t find the energy to clean. After the funeral, you cleaned obsessively and threw things away like her emergency kits and special foods. You knew that once the depression settled in, you wouldn’t be able to, but that didn’t stop the oncoming weight of grief and lack of energy to prevent the mess that cluttered your living space. Her backpack hung on the back of the front door, and her favorite little shoes sat next to yours.  
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw your answering machine blinking which meant you had a voice message. You pressed the button and pressed play to hear it. 

“Hi, Baby. I wanted to check in on you. I hope you’re eating well. We all miss you so much. Give me a call when you can.” It hurt to hear that old family nickname. Our aunt’s voice was nice to hear, but you already knew you wouldn’t be calling anytime soon. You couldn’t have a conversation with anyone you knew without them asking if you were continuing therapy or how you’ve been handling your sadness lately. It was too much. It wasn’t something you liked talking about. 

Did you know that cancer prevents wounds from healing properly? It does that. The cancer must have been contagious because the wound in your heart wasn’t healing either. It bleeds like she used to. 

You crawled into bed and hid under the covers. Now you understood the attraction of drugs. When Zeke gave you nameless pills the other day, his hands felt like velvet, and his dick was delicious fire. Every coherent thought was fucked out of you, and it was the lightest you have felt in a long time. 

You dug your hand into the front pocket of your hoodie and pulled a small note out. Eren’s number. The kid seemed bright for our age. He had everything down like it was nothing and probably handled life’s problems the same way, too. 

You sighed and held it tight in your hand as you hugged your comforter close to your body. Your lack of sleep was starting to hit you, and you let it take hold. You prayed for a dreamless slumber.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m keeping chapters short so that I can update often. Thank you to everyone who took the time to read this! I feel like mental illness is misrepresented too often, so here’s an attempt at telling a story using things that I know from my career and personal experiences.


End file.
